Riders Of Tyr 5: Ironhand

IRONHAND

I’m riding behind Tor and next to Vince, feeling on top of the world. The wind is whipping against my face, the sun is setting to my right, and the open road stretches out before us. I tighten my grip on the handlebars and steal another glance at the sun sinking into the ocean.

This is what freedom feels like, I think to myself. And freedom is all I crave.

“Clubhouse, straight ahead,” Tor calls out, picking up speed.

Vince and I follow suit, our bikes roaring as we devour the road to Berkeley. For a moment, this is all that exists. The bike beneath me, the reddening sun, the open road, and my brothers riding alongside me.

We encounter little traffic, but when we do, we never break formation, never leave a man behind, always protecting our king.

Listening to my grandfather’s stories about tribes in our isolated, snowbound reservation in Canada, I never imagined I’d find my tribe in a group of bikers in sunny California. But here I am.

Kisemanito, the god of my people, had a different path for me, and I’ve learned to trust him. I touch the talisman my mother gave me when I followed Tor’s father back to Berkeley.

Kisemanito has had the one-handed god of the Norsemen watch over me here. I’m a Cree warrior and a Rider of Tyr now, and I couldn’t be prouder.

“Finally,” Vince sighs as we round the corner onto the road the Riders call their own.

“I need a drink, a burger, and a woman,” he adds.

Of those three, all I really want is the burger. I’m starving.

As for drinks and women… I’ve never been a fan of alcohol, probably because I watched my father drown in it. I might share a joint with Stig if he’s up for it.

And as for women… I’m not in the mood. The ride was excitement enough for today. I’m content, and I don’t want some woman’s whining to ruin it.

It’s Friday, and the clubhouse is bustling. Well, almost everyone is here. I don’t expect to see Bjorn’s bike in its usual spot.

His daughter is a toddler now, and he spends most of his time at home. I understand. Why would he want to be here with a bunch of rowdy bikers when he could be at home with his stunning wife and his precious daughter?

I’m happy for him, but I miss Bjorn. He was more than just a fellow Rider to me. He was a true friend.

He invites me over all the time, and we still catch up at the garage where he works every day. But we no longer go on long, silent rides together. We don’t share beers outside the garage at night, and he no longer understands the feeling of something missing in our lives.

He’s found his missing piece.

I park my bike in my usual spot and head inside. The clubhouse is alive with loud voices, blaring music, and the clinking of glasses.

Tor and Vince are already at the bar, and the rest of the brothers greet us as we walk in.

“Everything good?” Daniel asks.

“Tomorrow at the Thing, man.” Tor slaps his Earl on the back. “Tonight, we drink and party!”

“I thought I smelled a whore,” a female voice says from behind us.

It’s Lysa, Daniel’s daughter and Vik’s Valkyrie. Her engagement and wedding rings sparkle under the lights, and she’s wearing her usual crop top that shows off her belly and her Valkyrie tattoo.

Right over her gunshot wound. Of all the tough guys in here, Lysa might be the toughest.

“No, Lys, you smelled a fucking sex god!” Tor pulls her into a hug and kisses her cheek.

“Brother, get your hands off my woman before I break them, and you won’t be able to jerk off.” Vik pushes Tor away.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tor mocks, walking away. “And for the record, I don’t jerk off. Ever!” He flips Vik off.

“All good, Ironhand?” Lysa turns to me.

I like Lysa. Not because she’s a beautiful woman with a killer body and a dazzling smile. But because she’s a hell of a fighter and a loyal Valkyrie.

I don’t usually trust women, but I can tolerate Lysa for a few minutes.

“Good,” I reply.

I’m not much of a talker, and people who meet me often think I’m mute. Our new thrall, Jab, thought I was and tried to communicate with me using sign language.

His sister is mute, and he learned it to talk to her. I didn’t break his fingers, but I can’t blame the guy. I prefer observing people to talking to them.

“We haven’t sparred in a while,” Lysa says with a smile.

She’s set up a gym across the street from Rage’s tattoo parlor and teaches self-defense classes to women and kids. She’s usually busy, but she still likes to spar with us occasionally, just to keep her blood pumping.

“Tomorrow.” I nod, heading for the bar.

It’s always nice to talk to Lysa—even if it’s just a couple of words—despite Vik’s watchful, possessive gaze. He’s head over heels in love with her.

I don’t understand it. I’m over thirty now, and I’ve never fallen for a woman. It seems like a waste of time, energy, and money.

I’m perfectly fine the way I am, I think to myself, heading over to the booth where Stig is sitting.

He’s with two of the club girls, one of whom is openly pleasuring him. The sight doesn’t even arouse me. I sit across from him and gesture for the joint he’s holding.

“Sure thing, brother.” Stig passes it to me.

I take a long drag and hold the smoke in. Just as I’m waiting for the relaxing sensation to kick in, I feel someone behind me.

“Ironhand,” Demi purrs.

Demi is one persistent woman. Ever since she turned eighteen, she’s been here almost every night. Apart from me and Bjorn, I don’t think there’s a brother she hasn’t slept with.

Even so, when she’s drunk, she’s confessed more than once that her fantasy is for me and Bjorn to take her together. She said it would feel like being crushed between two mountains.

And since Bjorn is taken by a very dangerous Russian Mafia princess, she’s set her sights on me.

She places one hand on my shoulder and slides the other down the front of my shirt. Just like she did before everything went to hell. The memory makes my blood boil.

There’s a reason I don’t keep women close. They’re all fucking whores! I grab Demi’s hand to stop her.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she coos, pressing her artificial chest against me. “You’ve had a long day, let me help you unwind.”

As her fingers graze the talisman around my neck, I react instinctively, pushing her away. She lands on her backside with a yelp, drawing the attention of everyone in the bar. Some of the patrons smirk, while others rush to help her up.

I don’t turn around, but I can feel her gaze burning into me. Screw her.

“Wow, that was harsh!” Stig slams his hand on the table. “Aren’t Canadians supposed to be all polite and stuff?”

I glance at him, a silent signal that the conversation is over, and pass him the joint.

Stig shrugs, accepts the joint, and casually tugs at the hair of the woman still pleasuring him.

Just another Friday with the Riders.